Not Well Written But Whatever
In category This Is Where I Pretend I Can Write! on 01 May 2006 @ 11:26 am
January 3rd, MMIV
~
I go to my father's. Same as always. And sometimes I write. And after I finish writing it, I can't look at it again. It's too painful. The small leaflets of paper torn out of the "journal" my grandmother gave me.
I go through some of my writing for CW, just checking for osme things to read. And here, in this very same notebook I spy those little pages. I know what they contain. Namely good writing. I barely hesitate as I pull them out of their pocket. I hold them in my hands, paper smelly, disgusting. Much like the years there. And I begin to read. The pages are not in order and maybe it's the color of the ink, red(blood, warning, pain, rage, passion) but I can't read further. A simple line,"putting her hair into twists, feeling as along as Witch Baby with her jacaranda eyes, but nothing marking her, making her unique, nothing to give her reason to feel this way." I remember everything. Vaugely, yes, because of mental blockades. So I put down the smelly paper, my smelly past and I wonder when I shall leave the past to the past.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes I tell my dreams,"show me this," or,"show me that." But sometimes, there are issure I dare not touch. While it can be torture not knowing, at the same time, sometimes it's better not to know. Why? Because I'm an angsty coward and I fear the worst and I don't wish to know the worst. When it comes to me I don't want ot know. Pick a person, any other person, I will. Friends, random strangers, whoever. But I cannot ask for myself. I know I'm far too accurate for my own good.
I wonder, should I just dream it and get it over with? Or shall I just lie in denial until one day I can take it no more and awake crying. . .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I've got this chair pulled up by my bed that's inhabited by a stereo but instead should be inhabited by someone like Kris or Bree(no, Adam actually, Bree just sounded better) Watching me as I lay on my bed, pen scratching on this paper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why go to bed when I can fufill my angst laying here in bed. And yes, writing in cursive. Damn the capitol "a"s and lowercase "r"s. And hell, bring out the scary, depressive music. The I'm-about-to-dream-some-horrendous-dreams-about-Nadia music.
I'm feeling a little paranoid. Like somethings gonna come and get me. A horrifying manifestation of my depression. Red stage lights, dripping blood from numerous self-inflicted cuts and burns. Crash and die, my love. Forever save me. By god, where's that x-acto knife? Accidently burned myself with the iron. Pulled away quick. There wasn't that second of darkness and panic. Just the pain. . .Now I know she means. I wish I didn't. God save me, I'm going to whatever Circle those "Violent Against Themselves" go to. That beautiful bleeding wood of the suicides.
I would rather be depressed for no goddamned reason than for a reason. They fucking suck. I'd rather be pained, hollow, empty, hurting for no goddamned reason than for one. I just want to block it all out. I don't want to remember. Remembering hurts too much.
(insert me writing Adam's name in cursive 9 times in different ways)
I feel like making really sad depressive music to get this out of me. Or just singing some and just crying.
It's so much easier to be angry.
I hate fucking reasons! I hate it I hate it! I don't want to remember.
Adam is my starboy.
I wish I had clap on clap off lights
I hate situations and feelings where you feel that no one can make you feel any better. Not for a split second ever.
Witch Baby with her jacaranda eyes.
(Note: I typed this up just as I wrote it. And I didn't write it well. Just random thoughts and stuff. Not even beautifully thought random thoughts. Some thoughts aren't so random but are put together as such. Also, I'm really disgusting and childish. Seriously. Didn't you totally want to kill me whan I said, "or singing sad music and just crying." Crying? CRYING?? Ugh (disgust) Please shoot me now. Oh and what about the childish "I hate it I hate it!" What the fuck? Even as I wrote it I thought,"What the fuck?" But I was like,"whatever" so I wrote it anyway. This something I could make swell, if I reworded most of it. But I probably won't because then it'd be painful. All my depressive beautiful stuff is painful. The depressive ugly stuff isn't. It's ok. I can read that. Yeah. (laughs) And no I did not search for the x-acto knife so chillax.)
~
I go to my father's. Same as always. And sometimes I write. And after I finish writing it, I can't look at it again. It's too painful. The small leaflets of paper torn out of the "journal" my grandmother gave me.
I go through some of my writing for CW, just checking for osme things to read. And here, in this very same notebook I spy those little pages. I know what they contain. Namely good writing. I barely hesitate as I pull them out of their pocket. I hold them in my hands, paper smelly, disgusting. Much like the years there. And I begin to read. The pages are not in order and maybe it's the color of the ink, red(blood, warning, pain, rage, passion) but I can't read further. A simple line,"putting her hair into twists, feeling as along as Witch Baby with her jacaranda eyes, but nothing marking her, making her unique, nothing to give her reason to feel this way." I remember everything. Vaugely, yes, because of mental blockades. So I put down the smelly paper, my smelly past and I wonder when I shall leave the past to the past.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sometimes I tell my dreams,"show me this," or,"show me that." But sometimes, there are issure I dare not touch. While it can be torture not knowing, at the same time, sometimes it's better not to know. Why? Because I'm an angsty coward and I fear the worst and I don't wish to know the worst. When it comes to me I don't want ot know. Pick a person, any other person, I will. Friends, random strangers, whoever. But I cannot ask for myself. I know I'm far too accurate for my own good.
I wonder, should I just dream it and get it over with? Or shall I just lie in denial until one day I can take it no more and awake crying. . .
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I've got this chair pulled up by my bed that's inhabited by a stereo but instead should be inhabited by someone like Kris or Bree(no, Adam actually, Bree just sounded better) Watching me as I lay on my bed, pen scratching on this paper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why go to bed when I can fufill my angst laying here in bed. And yes, writing in cursive. Damn the capitol "a"s and lowercase "r"s. And hell, bring out the scary, depressive music. The I'm-about-to-dream-some-horrendous-dreams-about-Nadia music.
I'm feeling a little paranoid. Like somethings gonna come and get me. A horrifying manifestation of my depression. Red stage lights, dripping blood from numerous self-inflicted cuts and burns. Crash and die, my love. Forever save me. By god, where's that x-acto knife? Accidently burned myself with the iron. Pulled away quick. There wasn't that second of darkness and panic. Just the pain. . .Now I know she means. I wish I didn't. God save me, I'm going to whatever Circle those "Violent Against Themselves" go to. That beautiful bleeding wood of the suicides.
I would rather be depressed for no goddamned reason than for a reason. They fucking suck. I'd rather be pained, hollow, empty, hurting for no goddamned reason than for one. I just want to block it all out. I don't want to remember. Remembering hurts too much.
(insert me writing Adam's name in cursive 9 times in different ways)
I feel like making really sad depressive music to get this out of me. Or just singing some and just crying.
It's so much easier to be angry.
I hate fucking reasons! I hate it I hate it! I don't want to remember.
Adam is my starboy.
I wish I had clap on clap off lights
I hate situations and feelings where you feel that no one can make you feel any better. Not for a split second ever.
Witch Baby with her jacaranda eyes.
(Note: I typed this up just as I wrote it. And I didn't write it well. Just random thoughts and stuff. Not even beautifully thought random thoughts. Some thoughts aren't so random but are put together as such. Also, I'm really disgusting and childish. Seriously. Didn't you totally want to kill me whan I said, "or singing sad music and just crying." Crying? CRYING?? Ugh (disgust) Please shoot me now. Oh and what about the childish "I hate it I hate it!" What the fuck? Even as I wrote it I thought,"What the fuck?" But I was like,"whatever" so I wrote it anyway. This something I could make swell, if I reworded most of it. But I probably won't because then it'd be painful. All my depressive beautiful stuff is painful. The depressive ugly stuff isn't. It's ok. I can read that. Yeah. (laughs) And no I did not search for the x-acto knife so chillax.)
